Speak To Me
by KyokoDreamer
Summary: Human AU. Alfred just wanted to hear him talk again, but he knew he wouldn't. Instead he settled for talking to everyone who knew him. But grief is a strange thing, and fate even stranger.


**Speak To Me**

It wasn't exactly the career Alfred would have picked for him, but he knew that ridiculously mismatched as it seemed, Arthur had loved his job. He was the slightest, smallest, stressiest trucker Alfred could have imagined, but a trucker Arthur had been, right up until his last breath. Right up until the huge head on collision that had crumpled the front of the vehicle, crushing his frail body unimaginably, and breaking every bone in his tiny hand that still clutched the CB radio his last words had been heard down. And everyone on the other end would hear his light extinguishing, and if they listened even longer, they might just catch the screams of anguish hours later of Alfred's own life ending for a split second as he had to see the most important thing in his world mangled, limp, and lifeless. And if they were still listening today, they would hear Alfred again.

"Well howdy, everybody. here again, who else we got on the line?" Alfred spoke confidently into a little receiver corded to a slightly dented radio, which stood on the kitchen table humbly.

"You got Soaring Eagle here, Cap." A gruff voice broke through the static on the line, "Good to hear from you again. How you holdin' up?"

Alfred had heard from this character before. He was becoming somewhat of a regular. He had known Arthur, Alfred knew, and it was almost comforting, especially as he had already confided in the man, unfortunate enough to have been listening at the point of impact, what exactly had happened. "Not too bad, my friend." he lied, "And how are things with you?"

"Ah, not too bad. Short route today, just a few hours here and back."

"I am glad to hear it."

Another crackle of static gave way to a new speaker, possibly female, younger, Alfred would guess, with a much higher, almost airy voice.

"Uh, hi, y'all. This is Pixie Dusted, pleased to hear from you guys. Couldn't get ahold of anyone all morning."

"Morning, ma'am." Soaring Eagle replied, "Where you off to today?"

"Oh, it's a long one, boys." the woman continued.

Alfred stood up, crossing to the kettle and flicking it on.

"Six hours. There and back."

Soaring Eagle whistled long and low, before countering, "I don't envy you one bit."

"Now you see why I was so desperate. Hey, this is going to sound like a weird question, but do any of y'all know what happened to The Gentleman?"

Alfred froze where he stood, clutching the kitchen side almost for support.

"Ever spoken to him? Did he say anything about quitting?" The voice of Pixie Dusted carried through the radio unabashed, and Alfred was still somewhat paralysed by it. "Only he used to talk with me often on his long journies."

Soaring Eagle was staying appropriately quiet, and Alfred shook himself out of the freezing sensation that had him suspended. He returned to the receiver, grabbing it up to his lips.

"Yes, I do know of The Gentleman." He couldn't help but choke a little when saying the handle.

Somehow sensing this, Soaring Eagle continued for him. "Uh, I'm afraid The Gentleman was in a terrible accident. The Captain here is his partner."

There was silence on the line, before Pixie Dusted whispered through: "I am so sorry, Captain."

And Alfred was crying. He coughed angrily, trying desperately to clear them, but it was no use. He picked up the reciever, rasping through a quick "That's okay. Thanks.", before "I'm going to go."

This was how every day went since it happened. He would wake in the morning and try to forget the soul-destroying pain that tore through him with the morning light. He would shower, and he would not sing anymore, where before he had done so loudly and tunelessly. Then he would switch on the radio, and listen to the frequencies. Every day since it happened, he'd got a question about Arthur. He wondered if the man had simply made an effort to know everyone which seemed so unlike him in life, but now could not be truer of him. He answered people's questions, and he lamented, and he cried, and he stayed on for as long as he could, and when he knew he could go on no longer he signed off.

Everyone knew of his dormant state, but none knew how to bring him out of it. He'd left the house certainly. Yes, he'd had a drink. He'd gone back to work once or twice. He functioned normally. And yet, he was so terribly wrong under the surface, and if you looked for more than a minute, it was not hard to notice.

This continued for a long time. Nearly three weeks in fact. Three weeks did not sound long to Alfred - until he went deeper. Three weeks was twenty one days. Twenty one days was five hundred and four hours. Five hundred and four hours was thirty thousand, two hundred and forty minutes... And suddenly the length of time was monumental. He woke up on the morning of the twenty-first day, and showered, and got ready as normal. Then he went downstairs, and he turned on that familiar CB radio.

He ignored the first few menial chats, the discoveries of an Alice in Wonderland*, the overly sharing 10-200* confessions, or promises to catch one another on the Flip-Flop* - terms he had come to understand but did not care about anymore, and then a familiar voice came on the line.

"Mornin' Captain A."

He sighed, before pressing the receiver, "Hey, Eagle. How are things?"

"Peachy. You?"

Why lie? "Shitter than ever before."

The harshness of that comment seemed to scare the other man a little, and he stayed silent for a bit, before simply saying: "Okay."

And then the line was completely silent. Neither of them spoke, and if anyone else was listening, they didn't either. A good half an hour passed, and Alfred lay on his back on the kitchen floor, breakfast things abandoned on the table. His hands sat on his stomach and he looked hopelessly at the ceiling. The radio was still on, occasionally giving a pathetic crackle of static.

"Why." He mumbled, more a statement than a question. "What did I ever do? What did he ever do?" And then simply: "I can't."

Then the CB radio crackled again. And a voice came through. It was a rusty voice, that was the only way he could describe it. A voice that had been disused so long, it had almost forgotten how to. He was listening to the voice of a ghost. And not just any ghost...

"This is The Gentleman. A-Al? Are you there?"

It couldn't be real. Alfred was horrified. He couldn't believe how sick and twisted some people could be. He peeled himself off the floor, ready to snatch that receiver and give 'em hell, but then the voice spoke again.

"Alfred. I need you."

He had no doubts now of its origin. That was his Arthur right there, and he needed him. He didn't need to think anymore, he didn't need to doubt. He simply ran. Straight out that door, and past the car that would get him there faster. He didn't stop running until he'd burst through those hospital doors, ran through every ward that stood between himself and that of Coma and Recovery and burst through into a tiny little room that had been deathly silent for all of three weeks, and came face to face with a beaten up, bruised, and feeble Arthur, desperately clinging to an CB radio receiver - the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

He saw Arthur's mother to one side - obviously the person who'd brought the radio, and she cried as she watched, and snuffled into a tissue. He was grateful to her, but couldn't help but ignore her, because in front of him was Arthur; crumpled, and crushed, and broken... But alive.


End file.
